


The Isolation Cabin

by OranisAlpine



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Summer Camp, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OranisAlpine/pseuds/OranisAlpine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, sent to the Isolation Cabin in the first week of summer camp, thinks that the next two months of camp are going to be the most boring time of his life, until he meets his sentenced cabin mate, John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Isolation Cabin

**Author's Note:**

> This is just the first chapter so please bear with me with the fact that it's so long.  
> Each chapter will have a different rating. This one is G. I will put the rating in the beginning notes.  
> The titles are not so much for the readers sake, but for mine as I work off of my summery and keep the chronology straight.

“SHERLOCK HOLMES, SHERLOCK HOLMES,” blared the loudspeaker that perched on top of the Camp Fun Creek flag pole, “PLEASE COME TO THE DIRECTORS’S CABIN IMMEDIATELY. REPORT IMMEDIATELY, SHERLOCK HOLMES!” 

Sherlock Holmes, looking quite smug as he began undressing from his 73 straight won matches in fencing, took little heed from the announcement and wandered off to find something else to do. A while later, a golf cart pulled up to him smirking at the ping pong tables, as he had just won 7 games in a row against the “best player in camp”. Though he would have loved to take up another round, the very stern looking man dressed in forest green polo with the camp logo on it and kakis seemed to need him urgently. 

Kicking up dirt behind it, the golf cart zipped up the massive hill the camp rested on, then jerked to a sudden halt in front of a large white wooden house with the words DIRECTOR carved out of a plank of oak mounted above the door.

Creaking, the doors revealed the dense odder of pine and dust. It made Sherlock crinkle his nose and his pale blue eyes dart around the musky office. A woman sat behind the only desk in the space; papers cluttering the vast majority of the surface, a lamp and computer occupying the rest. The woman looked up at him and rolled her eyes in that semi-polite way adults do. 

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” She inquired flatly.

“Maybe,” he snickered as a pool of smugness began materializing around his feet.

“The director wants to see you.” Standing, she led him to the only other door in the room that was not the exit. Sherlock followed at a distance, keeping his poise calm and unconcerned as he entered the second office. 

A rotund man with a self-satisfied face reclined behind the grand stained oak desk. He was clad in casual, drab looking clothes, but still had the element of authority to him. 

Sherlock reminded himself to keep his cool, but he knew what he was in for. He was on a ledge when he arrived, just slipping by the bag inspection with out them noticing his concealed belongings.

“Take a seat, Mr. Holmes. We have some things to talk about.”

He sat in a hard wooden chair facing the man who stared him down. Fidgeting, he played casual, failing to keep a straight face as the man began to talk.

“Mr. Holmes, here at Camp Fun Creek, we try to give kids and teenagers, like yourself, a fun and safe environment for them to grow and flourish. Though we try not to set too many rules, some guidelines are expected to be met to keep this camp a safe place.” He sighed and clasped his hands on top of the desk, staring Sherlock straight in the eyes. “Your head counselor noticed that you were acting strange on a few occasions and asked permission to inspect your duffel. He reported that he found… some things that are not permitted here at camp.”

Sherlock held his breath as the man reached into one of the side compartments and took something out. He laid it on the table, and Sherlock nearly laughed with relief, though he caught himself just in time. 

“Sherlock, we do not permit smoking here at camp. I was hoping that you knew that.”

Trying to keep his excitement down, he kept his eyes in his lap, only glancing momentarily at the two boxes of cigarettes before looking away in mock shame. He kept his gaze diverted from the man behind the desk until the man spoke to him.

“Because these were found in your position, you can either admit that they are yours, or we can do further investigation and you will get sent home if it is true. It is your choice, Mr. Holmes.”

“They are mine, Sir.” The teen mumbled, still avoiding any eye contact.

“Thank you for your confession, Sherlock. Because you confessed, you will not be sent home. Though, we can not have you back in a cabin with the same campers you were originally bunking with, incase you were supplying them with these.” He gestured to the packs that lay on the desk. 

Finally looking up in question, Sherlock didn’t know what to expect. He thought that he would immediately be sent home. Although, he had thought that when he thought that the man was talking about something that was not packs of cigarettes. “Then where will I go, Sir?”

“Well, for now, you will return to your cabin, and pack your bags. We expect you back here with your bags in no more than half an hour. You will then be sent to… another cabin. One made for campers that find themselves in… a situation like yours. There, we hope you will continue to have a wonderful experience here at camp, now that you will be pointed in a better direction.” He smiled a faux, premade smile. 

Sherlock sat there dumbstruck. His mouth hung slightly off hinge and head askew at an off angle. 

The man looked back up at him, and ticked his head towards the door. “You are free to go, Sherlock.”

He stood up and exited the building, making his way down the dirt path on the hill to where the cabins were. He climbed the creaking steps, his cabin deserted and dark. Scowling up at the burned out fluorescents that had been installed, he could only hope that the place he was moving to would at least have lighting. Haphazardly throwing his belongings into the drab green duffel, he sat on it just to get the zipper closed. Grimacing as he threw the strap over his shoulder, he set off up the hill, the monster of a bag dragging in the dirt behind him.

Awaiting him at the top was the tell tale golf cart with the Camp Fun Creek logo printed on the side. The man dressed in a forest green polo and kakis sat at the wheel, listening to the walky-talky clipped to his belt. He looked around, spotted Sherlock and his bag, spoke into the receiver, and walked over to Sherlock. 

“Alright, mate, let’s get you to your new cabin.”

Unknowing where they were going, Sherlock followed behind tentatively, his steps neither even nor steady. His duffle bungee chorded onto the back, Sherlock sat next to the kaki man, the trip down rocky paths jostling him out of his seat, making him question why golf carts didn’t have seat belts. 

They halted abruptly in a thicket of ivy hacked to reveal a narrow and overgrown trail. Though the foliage was verdant, it was also impossibly dense. Unable to see where it led, the ebony haired teen’s heart rate quickened ever so slightly, uncertain as to what lay in the depths of growth. 

Hauling the green monster duffle bag over one shoulder, he tromped through the under growth to find a stilted cabin at tree level. The external sliding was pale wooden shingles with lichen sprouting here and there. Winding steps led up to a wrap around porch, wooden slatted railings running in perimeter. The cabin itself looked relatively stable, though Sherlock questioned if the roof leaked or not. One skylight sat on the roof, only a few pine needles resting on it. 

Stairs creaking as Sherlock climbed them; he made his way up to the porch with the kaki man a few steps behind. The lock jammed as the kaki man tried to open it, but finally it gave way to the interior.

Sherlock stepped inside, dragging the bag behind him. A thick layer of duct resigned on the floor, little clouds of it rising as Sherlock moved his feet back and forth. The kaki man flipped on a switch and the place illuminated with a slightly blue tinge as the lights buzzed above him. 

Two beds lay pushed against opposite walls, a crate functioning as a bedside table beside each bed, and a pile of sheets stacked in a small pyramid at the foot of each bed. On the other side of the cabin, two doors stood. One was ajar, obviously a supply cupboard. The other stood closed. Curiosity took Sherlock to wander over and investigate the door. Opening it, he peered into an in suite bathroom, equip with sink, shower, and loo.

Looking back at the kaki man, he nodded and stated, “Yes, you don’t need to go down to the bath house with everyone else.” As if he was in a hurry to leave, the kaki man handed him a key on a rope to go around his neck and left, driving away in the golf cart.

Questioning if this was possibly fortunate, Sherlock dragged his duffel to the end of his bunk, and tried his best to fit the sheets over the bare mattress. He then proceeded to unzip the green monster and take out his pillow and sleeping bag. He opened the sleeping bag and lay it inside up, so the soft plaid flannel interior lay on the top. 

Heading over to the supply cupboard, it revealed a solo broom, a handful of rolls of toilet tissue, and other repair supplies including two coils of rope and duck tape. He then proceeded to go through the entire cabin, sweeping the corners and doing a mediocre job of wiping dust off surfaces. One of the crates, the one closest to his bed, had a large crack down one side. This was promptly fixed with the duck tape, as well as some wood chips from the ground outside to stable the base from wobbling. 

He then kicked off his sneakers and lay down on top of his open sleeping bag. He closed his eyes, trying to sleep, but then realizing that it was all too bright to do that just yet, he stared up out of the skylight in the roof. His mind wandered, creating creatures out of the shapes the pine branches would create above the cabin as the breeze weaved through them. 

Conciseness slipping, he closed his eyes and fell into a light sleep, waking groggily to a soft knocking on the door frame. Opening his eyes in a daze, he stumbled over and opened the door. 

Smiling, he looked back at the brown haired girl who stood on the step holding a plate of food. 

“Hey, Molly,” He yawned.

“Hello, Sherlock. The director noticed you weren’t at dinner, and he didn’t want to make a special trip up here to get you, so I volunteered to bring you up something.”

“Thanks,” he smiled back, taking the plate from her. He opened the door wider and looked back at her. “You want to come in?”

She nodded and followed a few paces after him. “Nice place you got here,” she remarked, not wanting to be too blunt asking why he was sent.

“Yeah. They found cigarettes in my duffel and sent me up here just in case I was supplying any other kids.”

Molly smiled. She was the only one besides Sherlock who knew the reason he was worried about being sent home. Scoffing, she walked over to his bag; Sherlock snickering as she began rummaging through the bottom of the contents. He began eating luke-warm spaghetti with a fork Molly had brought, his interest peaking as she pulled out a thick red spiral bound notebook. 

“I told you not to go in that, Molls.” He mischievously smirked.

“I know,” she snickered, glancing up to meet his eyes, knowing that he wouldn’t stop her if she did. “And don’t call me Molls.”

She sat back on the bed Sherlock had not taken and opened the notebook, eyes taking in the pages, glancing up at Sherlock every now and then, smiling her all too knowing grin that Sherlock both enjoyed and resented.

“I see you’ve added some new pictures,” she commented back handed. 

Sherlock exchanged glances with her, both of them blushing and giggling. 

“You better not tell anyone that I have this,” He remarked, an edge of sternness.

“I won’t. As long as you don’t tell people that I look at it.”

“You have yourself a deal, Molly Hooper.”

“All my pleasure, Sherlock Holmes.”

She went back to reading, and he to eating. They stayed statically apart until it began to grow dark and Molly stood to leave. He stood beside her in the doorframe, the pale sunlight fading in the trees. The brown haired girl looked up at him, trying a brave face for him.

“Sherlock, when are you ever going to get some other friends?” Her eyes pooled the light that enveloped them; casting subtle shadows deep in the hazel rings. 

“Molly,” Sherlock sighed with teeth clenched. “I have no need for any one besides you, me, and my brother. Anyone else is a nuisance and I despise every one of them. I find no use in your protesting for years on end about how I need to “put myself out there” and make some “friends”. Molly, you’ve known me for five summers here, you must have known by now that I do not have “friends”.” He scowled into the distance of the tops of the pine trees, but he could not meet her eyes when she addressed him once more.

“You think you’re so different, Sherlock. Yet I look at you and I see how lonely you are. Everyday of the summer we spend here I watch how you try to fill the chasm in your life with something besides people. Every year it is something different. I’ve seen you go through drugs and cutting yourself and you went through countless eating disorders. I was the one who would show up at your cabin in the morning to find you covered in injuries from when you go free running. I’ve seen you drunk to the point where you could have died and hangovers where you would have killed yourself to get away from the pain.”

“Things have changed, Molly. It’s different now.” He snapped.

“No it’s not. Now I see you in the same spot you were last year. If anything, it’s just gotten worse. Now you are going to hide away the whole summer in your secret tree house trying to find the emotional connection that you will never get.”

“You don’t know what you’re taking about, Molly. You know nothing.”

His words carved ravines between them, and with nothing left to say, Molly departed without another word. Sherlock was left staring after her in the dusk until the undergrowth enveloped her and there was no use left for him to stay. Heading back in, he could not but ingest the things she had said to him. They hurt surprisingly more than they should have, but Sherlock’s reasoning on that bit was because she made up half of all the friends he had. Well, it was really more like three quarters because Mycroft was his brother and therefore could only count as one quarter. 

Changing into his nightclothes when he got back inside, sleep evaded him until the rays of dawn broke the next morning, leaving him restless in the morning and groggy. 

Disregarding better knowledge of etiquette, he pulled on old muddy tennis shoes and trudged up the hill of impossible steepness up to the mess hall. Glances were cast in his direction as he entered, the majority of which were of curiosity, though the feral ones of his enemies still stood out from the commonwealth. 

He jerked a tray from the pile at the front of the sub-par buffet of watery eggs and sausages that leave that aftertaste in your mouth that made you feel like gagging. Taking a handful of sausages, two bowls of cereal, a bowl of three different types of yogurt with some sort of granola, and two glass of half chocolate/half skim milk, he turned to look around for a place to sit. 

To his utmost sarcastic delight, there in the corner stood an isolated, sorry excuse of a table with a paper sign taped above it with the words ISOLATION TABLE scrawled in purple marker. Two chairs sat at either end against the wall, one making a loud scraping cry as Sherlock pulled it out to sit down. 

Chewing under the gaze of hundreds, he did no more than keep his eyes down and eat until his tray was empty. Only them did he stand, bus his tray, and return wordlessly down the hill to the Isolation Cabin. 

He lay on his bed for he majority of the day, moving when he was restless, pacing back and forth, wearing a canyon into the floor boards as he traced his route every time. The cabin had the right name. Isolation. That was now what he was. He was Isolation. 

Noon swung around and there was the predictable knock on the door. Opening to Molly holding food, he sighed and let her in. She was clearly upset with him, yet she showed. Mutely, they sat and Sherlock began to eat. Molly was the first to speak.

“How is it being alone?”

“I thought it would be easier…”

“Easier to ostracize yourself and be alone without really being alone than to want to be with other people and be ostracized by them?”

“Yeah…” he stopped eating. “I don’t even know how long I have to stay here.”

“I heard something along the lines of ‘until camp ends’ going around.”

“Shit.”

“Two months of sitting in a cabin by yourself and not being aloud to leave disregarding meals? Seems pretty shitty…” Her laugh was half-hearted and echoed in the cabin. 

She stood to leave and Sherlock let her go, lying back in his bed and sleeping till dinner. He woke as the sun began to set, and, skipping dinner entirely, pulled on some tennis shoes and a sweatshirt and headed outside with a torch. 

Walked along the trail that led to his cabin, he turned at a fork just before the main road on the hill. The path was overgrown, but not enough to be lost. It wound its way through the walls of trees and ivy to an opening in the undergrowth. 

Sherlock gazed out into the view provided by the opening, being able to see into the distance of the mountains. The vast majority of the expanse was dark and depthless, but in the distance the moon lay reflected on a small lake cloaked in pine trees. Though Sherlock did not take the time to register the beauty of nature on a day-to-day basis, now was one of the few moments where he sat on the dirt with his arms wrapped around himself. 

Feeling the chill on his face contrasting with the heat from his hands, Sherlock gazed across the lake and his eyes locked onto the shimmering line of the moonlight reflecting on the almost even surface of the lake. Deep in the pit between his stomach and his heart, he felt a tug of something that one could only label as remorse. Emotions such as these would be the downfall of him, and Sherlock knew that, but all alone, emotions could not hurt him. No one would see them and judge him for feeling such things that were so common and… human. 

On impulse and impulse alone, Sherlock reached a hand up to his face and caressed his cheek, not as if it was his own, but as if it was the one of someone who truly loved him. His own touch brought his eyes to a close and his mind to a rest as he sat there in the faint light of the moon. 

Time passed until the darkness consumed the lake as the clouds covered the moon. Sherlock stood in the chill air and silently made is way back to the cabin and falling asleep in his clothes, only bothering to kick off his tennis shoes. The last thought in his mind that night was not of rebellion or defiance, but of the needing for another person to hold or hold him in this time of ostracization. 

Sleep consumed him in the early hours of dawn and he slept through eleven when he woke with a start at the sound of sharp knocks on the door. Groggy, he stumbled out of bed and fumbled with the handle. He swung it open to find the director standing there in his kakis and green polo collared shirt with a stubborn blond boy next to him in a camouflage shirt and jeans carrying a duffel on his back. 

“Mr. Holmes,” the Director grinned him with the clone of the pre-made smile, “it appears you have a cabin-mate. Meet John Watson.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for finishing! I promise there will be good things to come!


End file.
